


The Discouraging Dilemma

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical alcohol abuse (mentioned), Communication, Developing Relationship, Dom/me!Rory, Eventual Sex, Fernald is jealous, First Time, Flirting, Frottage, Headcanon: Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Making Out, Massage, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Other, Rory is oblivious, Scratching, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Spanking, Wine, gender studies, light painplay, non-negotiated BDSM, sub!Fernald, unnecessary backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Set during The Wide Window.Fernald likes Rory, but can't figure out whether they return his feelings. He's noticed, though, that they seem self-conscious when talking to him. When he hears them talking freely to Larry Your-Waiter, Fernald gets jealous.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedCinnamonRoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedCinnamonRoll/gifts).



> Names:
> 
> Henchperson - Rory  
> White-Faced Women - Jenny and Elvira  
> Bald Man - Arturo

Fernald scowled to himself as he skulked around the dry storage room off the kitchen of the Anxious Clown. He was brooding, and it was over something a bit silly and he knew it.

But knowing it didn’t make him feel any better. 

He didn’t understand Rory. To say they were giving him mixed signals was an understatement. He’d been flirting with them for weeks now, trying to gauge their reaction, and was getting nowhere. If they’d made it clear they weren’t interested, that would be one thing. If that were the case, he’d back off, no question. 

Often, they seemed to flirt back, or give him an encouraging almost-smile. But other times, they didn’t seem to react to him at all, or avoided looking into his eyes in moments where a glance should have been all that was necessary to confirm mutual interest. 

On the trip across Lake Lachrymose, for instance, as Rory lay in the bottom of the boat, they’d let the back of their hand rest against Fernald’s ankle for rather a long time. And not that there was an abundance of space in a rowboat with five people, but Fernald had noticed that Rory had left at least a little space between themselves and Arturo. And when the troupe had reached the shore and Fernald had helped Rory up out of the boat, their hand had lingered on Fernald’s arm for longer than was strictly necessary. 

But then, afterwards, at the market, they’d ignored him entirely, hadn’t even stood near him as the troupe had facilitated Josephine’s meeting with Captain Sham. 

(Once, before those wretched Baudelaire children had shown up and ruined everything, the troupe had shared a case of red wine backstage after a performance. During the ensuing conversation, Rory had made mention of both an ex-girlfriend and an ex-boyfriend. So the possibility was there, Fernald reasoned. But whether they actually liked _him_ , he hadn’t been able to figure out.)

Fernald tapped his hook listlessly against one of the stainless steel racks in the storage room. The events of the night before hadn’t done anything to clear up the matter. Because, really, the thing that confused him the most—a phrase which here means “hurt his feelings, but he didn’t want to admit it”—was that Rory would _talk_ to the others, readily, endlessly, but always got quiet around Fernald.

Just yesterday, for instance, they’d talked to Jenny and Elvira about makeup as the two had dabbed more white powder onto their faces. Which is to say, the topic had started off with makeup and segued into an admittedly one-sided discussion on the history and politics of drag performance, and from there into the philosophy of someone called Judith Butler, whoever that was, while the twins had nodded politely and looked more and more nonplussed. 

And later on, as the troupe had cleaned up the offices, or rather, the dilapidated shack of the sailboat rental agency, Arturo had picked up a yellowed newspaper and remarked on some football match long past. Then Rory had talked to him about sports—well, okay, about the culture of toxic masculinity and racism in professional athletics, which had left Arturo with a defeated, glazed look. 

After they’d all finished setting up camp in the rental shack, Jenny and Elvira had gone to sleep in what they termed the “small bedroom,” which Fernald suspected was, in reality, a broom closet. Arturo had thrown on a raincoat and gone out to prowl around the docks, and by that time, Olaf had drunk himself into a stupor in the office. 

Outside, the chilly fog had crept up from Lake Lachrymose, and the wind wailed ominously. Fernald was grateful for the kerosene heater he’d found in the closet that now warmed the room. 

Rory had managed to find a moth-eaten blanket somewhere and wrapped themselves in it as they huddled in the corner near the heater, a few feet away from Fernald. 

“Are you cold?” Fernald had asked. 

“Not really,” said Rory. “Do you want the blanket?” 

Fernald wasn’t really cold either, although he wouldn’t have minded sharing a blanket with Rory. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t what they were offering.

“No,” said Fernald. “I’m fine. I just wondered.” 

The two of them sat in silence for a time, then Rory said, “I liked your accent.”

“What accent?” Fernald demanded. 

“The French accent you were doing earlier, at the market” said Rory. “I thought it was pretty convincing.”

“Oh,” said Fernald. “That.”

“Do you speak French?” they asked.

“No,” he said. “What about you?”

“Not very much,” they admitted. “I learned a little French and a little German, back when I was in college, but that was mostly just for reading. I don’t think I could have a conversation or anything.”

“Really?” said Fernald. “What made you learn languages? Just for fun?”

“You know how they say people are usually good at either languages or math?” asked Rory.

Fernald had never heard this, but he nodded anyway.

“Well, I’m _really_ bad at math,” said Rory with a little smile. “But actually there are some really insightful gender theorists whose work isn’t widely available in translation.” Their face lit up. “For example, Liebrand has this really great analysis of the dichotomy of the femme fatale and the femme fragile.”

Fernald nodded and closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of Rory’s voice, almost enough to make him forget the miserable room they found themselves in. Fernald liked to listen to people explaining about things. And right now, Rory sounded almost—happy? 

They continued rapidly: “You’re probably already familiar with the femme fatale—the deadly woman, who uses her sexuality to bring about the downfall of the male protagonist. Although you do see variations like—sorry,” they broke off.

“Huh? Sorry for what? Go on with that you were saying.”

Rory shook their head. “Never mind. It wasn’t important.”

And they wouldn’t talk any more after that, and soon curled up in the corner, sleeping or pretending to sleep.

Now, still agonizing over it a day later, Fernald didn’t know what he had done wrong. Perhaps he should have replied to show that he really was interested in what they’d been saying. More likely, he’d given himself away somehow, given some subconscious sign indicating his feelings, and Rory was backing away, giving him his answer. Yes, that was it. It was time for him to stop playing at this one-sided flirtation. 

And then, as Fernald walked out of the stock room, he heard Rory talking to that supercilious waiter, telling him some recipe or other, going on about anchovies and onions and whatever else, but more importantly, _talking_ to him. The simmering jealousy inside Fernald bubbled up and spilled over, and he stormed over and snapped at Rory, “ _Stop being friendly to him!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fernald is sensitive about his accent.
> 
> Rory is The Worst at math (which is now totally canonical as of The Ersatz Elevator).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In which the author uses italics far too often.)
> 
> Also, to attempt, inadequately, to give credit: I realized that the whole "getting jealous over love interest having apparently meaningful conversation with someone else" bit as I wrote it here was pretty heavily influenced by an old View Askewniverse fic that I read way before AO3 existed (and of course I don't remember the author...), so I figured I'd acknowledge that.

Rory was evidently so shocked at Fernald’s outburst that they didn’t even attempt to prevent Larry from answering the phone when it rang. That had left it up to Fernald to go and stop him and take out his frustration on the telephone, which didn’t really solve anything, but did make him feel a tiny bit better. 

It was only a moment later that Olaf appeared in the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “No, no, Poe, stay put, I’ve just got to visit the little sailors’ room, won’t be a minute.”

He turned to face the troupe, and immediately dropped the fake smile he’d been wearing for the benefit of Mr. Poe. 

“Did I hear the telephone?” he growled. 

“No,” said Fernald.

“Yes,” said Rory. 

The twins looked from one to the other, then chorused, “Maybe.”

“I mean,” said Fernald quickly, “yes, you did hear the phone—”

Larry opened his mouth as if to contradict him.

“—but it was just a wrong number,” said Fernald. 

Larry gave him a quizzical look, but kept silent. 

“Oh,” said Olaf with a shrug. “All right.”

Fernald managed not to audibly sigh in relief. Even if he was annoyed with Rory, he didn’t want them to get shouted at by Olaf. (And he knew on some level, even if he hadn’t quite worked it out mentally yet, that his annoyance probably wasn’t entirely justified.)

“Well, since I’m here,” said Olaf, “you’ve probably noticed that the orphans have attempted to escape our clutches, but I assure you, it’s only temporary. As soon as I finish this _paperwork_ ,” he said with a shudder of disgust, “they will be legally in my possession.”

“Uh, boss?” said Fernald.

“I mean under my protection. Yes. Protection. Which is what I said.”

“Exactly,” said Jenny.

“As you said,” agreed Elvira. 

“Very generous of you,” added Arturo. 

“Yes. Well, anyway, _you_ ,” said Olaf, pointing at Fernald, “go back to the rental agency and keep an eye out for those Baudelaire brats. We wouldn’t want them to get any ideas about _sailing away_ from right under our noses, now, would we?”

“Why would anyone go sailing during a hurricane?” asked Rory.

“It was a figure of—never mind!” snapped Olaf. “Just go. You too,” he said to Rory. 

“I can handle it on my own,” protested Fernald.

“You didn’t handle it so well when I left you to guard the baby alone,” said Olaf darkly. 

“Yes, boss,” said Fernald dutifully, despite the chagrin he felt. Would Olaf ever forget that slip up? 

“You two—three,” Olaf corrected himself, addressing Arturo and the twins, “stay here and keep an eye on _him_.” He nodded toward Larry.

“Will do,” said Jenny.

“No problem,” said Elvira. 

“Good. Now I’d better get back to—” Olaf sighed overdramatically, “ _signing paperwork_.”

The hurricane had begun in earnest now, Fernald realized, as he and Rory hurried through the wind and rain back to the rental agency. Once they’d shut the door against the roar of the wind and the incessant drumming of the rain, Fernald sank back against the wall to catch his breath. 

Rory picked up their blanket from where it lay crumpled in the corner and used one corner to dry their face, then offered it to Fernald. He took it and rubbed his face dry, the coarse wool rough against his skin. 

“Thanks,” he said. He felt a little bad for snapping at Rory earlier—it wasn’t as if they’d really done anything wrong. 

Rory rummaged in the drawers of the reception desk, came up with a book of matches, and lit the lantern hanging over the desk to dispel the darkness. In the flickering yellow glow, Fernald saw how sad they looked, and he felt even worse. He should say something, he knew. Before he could formulate an apology, Rory spoke. 

“I’m sorry,” they said meekly.

“I—what?” Fernald stared uncomprehendingly.

“For making you upset,” explained Rory. “Um. I’m not actually sure what I did wrong, but if you tell me, I’ll try not to.” They picked up the ragged blanket again from where Fernald had dropped it on the desk, and twisted its corner in their fingers. 

“No,” said Fernald. “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything. I was just—” He broke off with a sigh, gesturing inarticulately. 

“No, really, please,” said Rory. “Sometimes I’m not the best at realizing when I’ve done something that puts people off. It helps if you tell me.”

“You were talking to him!” Fernald burst out with such vehemence that Rory took a step back, eyes going wide. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry. I’m not yelling at _you_ ,” said Fernald. “I just—you were _talking_ to him and just--telling him what you were thinking, the way you do with the others. But you won’t talk to me and I—I wish you would.”

Rory took a tiny step closer, still fiddling with the blanket. 

“I was trying not to annoy you.”

Fernald stared. “What? Why would you annoy me?”

“Sometimes I get into things and then I talk about them too much,” said Rory. “And then it’s easy to forget that it isn’t that interesting to anyone else, only sometimes I don’t realize until after I’ve been bothering them. And I was trying really, really hard not to do that with you because I didn’t want you to think—I guess I wanted you to like me,” they said, looking down at the floor. 

Then Fernald understood. “Hey,” he said gently, reaching out to touch them on the arm. “Rory. Come on. Look at me, okay?”

They raised their face unhappily to meet his gaze. 

“Of course I like you,” said Fernald, even though he wasn’t entirely sure this was an appropriate thing for a villain to admit. Although technically they were henchpeople, rather than full villains, so maybe a conversation about feelings wasn’t totally out of bounds. “I thought _you_ didn’t like _me_ because you’d always stop talking around me.”

“Oh!” said Rory in surprise, as if this possibility had never occurred to them. 

“Actually,” Fernald went on, deciding to take a chance, “I like you maybe a little more than I should.”

“What do you mean, more than you should?”

“I like you,” repeated Fernald, slowly, “as more than just an associate.”

Rory blinked innocently. “You mean we’re friends?” 

“Well, yes,” said Fernald, “but that’s not what I meant. I meant I, er—like you as more than a friend, as well.”

“You mean—oh!”

Fernald couldn’t tell whether their surprise was pleased or dismayed. 

“Look,” he said quickly, “if you’re not interested, we’ll forget this conversation ever happened. But if you are, would you like to…” He paused. _Be my boyfriend_ was definitely the wrong thing to day. _Girlfriend_ didn’t fit either. _Special friend_? Oh dear, that sounded even worse. “Would you want to try—to see where—” He waved one hook helplessly, searching for the words to voice his intentions. 

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” asked Rory.

Of course, that was one way to handle it.

“Not at all,” said Fernald.


	3. Chapter 3

Fernald had expected Rory to be gentle, even shy. He had been wrong. 

Not that he minded.

Rory kissed him aggressively, and Fernald responded with equal enthusiasm. 

When they finally stopped for breath, Fernald was left a bit dazed. 

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting you to be so…uh…”

“Was it too much?” asked Rory in concern.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t complaining,” said Fernald. 

“Oh,” said Rory. “Good.” They kissed him again. 

Rory sank into the empty receptionist’s chair, bringing Fernald with them. The two of them kissed with a fervor that came of the past few weeks of tension and unsuccessful flirting. 

Up until now, Fernald had tried not to allow himself to think about how this situation might play out. But the few times his mind had gone there, he’d expected that Rory would be—not _innocent_ , exactly, but more in keeping with their usual passive demeanor. 

Once again, he’d been wrong, but he found that he didn’t mind at all. Instead, he found himself startlingly aroused at the confidence of their hands on his body. It wasn’t that Rory was doing anything spectacular, but the sureness of their touch, the way they pulled him into their lap, holding him close, secure—it filled a need he hadn’t known that he had. 

One of their hands slipped under his shirt, exploring the skin of his back, his shoulders. Then, lightly, experimentally, the scrape of fingernails against his skin. Fernald growled in approval.

“Do you like it?” asked Rory.

He nodded, unable to find the words at first. “Oh, yes. You can do it harder than that, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Please_ do it harder.”

A look of comprehension crossed Rory’s face, and they kissed him. At first, he felt only the palm of their hand rubbing gently, soothingly over his shoulder where they’d scratched him. Then, just when he was lulled into thinking they wouldn’t—the sharp sting down his back as he was being kissed, Rory’s other hand at the back of his head, holding him in place so that all he could do was cry out against their mouth. 

When Rory let go, Fernald was shaking. 

“Are you all right?” they asked.

“Better than all right,” he murmured. Then, turning his attention to a more practical consideration, he braced himself against the back of the chair to keep his balance and shifted in Rory’s lap—it seemed polite to make at least a perfunctory effort to conceal his erection. But as he moved, he felt that they were hard, too.

“Oh,” said Fernald, looking up with a wicked grin. 

“Oh, what?” asked Rory, playing innocent. 

“Nothing,” said Fernald, leaning in closer. “Nothing at all.”

He kissed them, shifting his position again to deliberately rub against their erection. Rory gasped. 

“What is it?” Fernald asked, still teasing.

“N-nothing,” said Rory. Then Fernald moved again, and Rory was holding onto his hips and moving up against him, and they kissed him again. 

Panting, they continued to thrust against each other through their clothes. It occurred to Fernald that they could go further—after all, they were adults, they were both experienced—but he was really enjoying it and didn’t want to stop. And judging by the sounds Rory was making, they _definitely_ didn’t want him to stop and—

Fernald stopped. 

They’d both heard it, unmistakably—a sound outside the rental office. They both stood quickly and straightened their clothing. 

Thankfully, no one came into the office, but the footsteps and voices outside were clearly audible. Fernald raised a hook to his lips, signaling to Rory to keep quiet, and tiptoed noiselessly to the window, just in time to see the Baudelaires release a sailboat from its moorings and set off into the churning waters of Lake Lachrymose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get to the sex but it turned into an entire chapter of them talking about wine

After that, of course, they’d had to call Olaf, and there was all that tiresome business with Josephine and the orphans and fleeing from Poe again. 

It wasn’t until the next night, after they were back in the city, that Fernald and Rory got a moment to themselves. Ever since the incident with Josephine, Rory had seemed quiet and withdrawn, although this time, Fernald knew that it was nothing to do with him. Nevertheless, they’d invited him to come over to their apartment in the Beverage District later that night. 

Fernald had taken a few hours to go home, shower, and take extra care to make himself look presentable. On the way to their apartment, he’d stopped at a wine shop, thinking he’d pick up a bottle of something that would make him seem suave and knowledgeable. In reality, Fernald was overwhelmed by the selection the minute he stepped inside the shop, and stood looking around helplessly until the elderly clerk came out from behind the counter. 

“Can I help you find anything?” she asked. 

“I—uh—was looking for some wine,” he said, feeling stupid the moment the words left his mouth. 

But the woman didn’t laugh at him, just nodded gravely and said, “I can help you with that. What sort of wine are you after?”

“I don’t know,” said Fernald. “It’s not for me. I don’t really drink wine, but I wanted something—you know, nice.”

“For someone special, then?” 

“Yes.”

“Something to impress them a bit, is that it?” she asked knowingly.

Fernald nodded gratefully. 

“Does this person prefer white or red?”

“Er—red, I think.” He’d only ever seen them drink red, anyway, although that could just as well be because it was Olaf’s preference and therefore what was around.

The clerk asked him a few more questions, selected a bottle of something that was far more expensive than what he normally would have chosen, and winked at him and wished him good luck on his way out. 

When Rory answered the door, Fernald found them with the same listless manner they’d had all day.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping inside. 

“Huh? Yeah, I was just—I’ve been thinking too much about work,” said Rory, closing the door, “and it’s kind of bumming me out.”

“Then let’s do something to take your mind off it,” said Fernald. “I brought wine. Would you like some?”

“Oh! You shouldn’t have. But thank you. There’s corkscrew in the—you know, actually, let me,” they said hastily, taking the bottle to the kitchen. When they returned a few moments later, they brought two glasses of wine, the dark, almost purple liquid glimmering darkly in the lamplight. 

They carefully handed Fernald one of the glasses and took a seat next to him on the sofa, further away than Fernald had expected. Perhaps Rory had changed their mind about him? Or maybe they were just as nervous as he was.

“So,” said Rory. “Getting my mind off work, you said. Any suggestions for that?” 

“I’m sure we can think of something,” said Fernald.

They took a drink. “This wine is good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, no, it’s just that I don’t normally like Malbec that much,” said Rory.

“Did I get the wrong thing?” asked Fernald. “I had the lady at the shop pick it out. She said it was a safe bet, but—I don’t really know anything about wine,” he confessed. 

“No, it’s fine,” said Rory. “Malbec is made from a type of grape that fell out of common use in France but is now popular in Argentina,” they explained, “which is where this one is from. When I tried it before, I had a Chilean variety. I’ve heard those tend to have a more acidic quality, which is probably why I didn’t—sorry,” they said. 

“I like listening to you,” Fernald reminded them. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you think?” asked Rory. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

Fernald ventured a sip of the wine. He couldn’t really tell the difference between it and the cheap Merlot favored by Olaf. And Rory was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his opinion—for him to say something intelligent—

“Tastes like wine,” said Fernald. 

Rory smiled. An actual, genuine smile, something he rarely saw from them. 

“You know, you’re very intimidating,” said Fernald. 

“Me?” said Rory in disbelief. 

“Yes, you. You know all these different— _things_ and can explain them to people like it’s nothing, and I just feel like I’m not on your level.”

Rory frowned. “Don’t think that. I might be good at remembering _things_ , but I’m pretty bad at people, and that totally makes me feel stupid all the time. Like, right now, for example,” they went on, “I’d really like to sit closer to you, but I’m not sure if that’s something you’d be open to.”

“I definitely would,” said Fernald. 

Rory moved closer to snuggle against Fernald’s side, and rested their head against his shoulder. 

“I bet you know about lots of things, too,” said Rory. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Well,” said Fernald, considering, ‘I used to be pretty good at setting fires. And I helped my stepfather pilot his submarine.” He frowned slightly, and went on, “I never got along with him as well as my sister did.”

“You have a sister?” asked Rory. 

Fernald nodded. “She’s quite a bit younger than me. I haven’t seen her in a long time, but she was—is—really smart, like you. She’s called Fiona.”

“I have a younger sister, too,” said Rory, taking another drink of wine. “Actually, that’s how I got my name.”

“But if she’s younger—?” queried Fernald. 

Rory sat up and considered a moment, as if debating internally, trying to reach a decision. Then they set down their glass and asked, “Can I trust you with a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” they said, still a touch hesitant, “I don’t normally tell people my deadname, but _Rory_ is because when my sister was little, she couldn’t say Orlando.”

Fernald understood that Rory telling him this was a big deal, even if he himself couldn’t fully grasp how they felt about it. He placed an arm around their shoulders and drew them closer. 

“Doesn’t suit you as much,” he said.

“I know,” said Rory, “but both my mothers were big fans of Virginia Woolf, so—” They shrugged. Then they turned to face Fernald. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are we—um, together?”

“You mean, like, seeing each other? An item?” asked Fernald.

“Yeah. I mean, we never really got around to establishing that.”

“I’d like that very much,” said Fernald earnestly, “if you’ll have me.”

“I’d like that, too,” said Rory, and kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished--this chapter ended up being super long! I hope it is satisfactory!

“So,” said Rory, “would you be interested in picking up where we left off the other day?”

“Absolutely.”

Rory kissed Fernald again. “Would you like to move this into the other room?”

“I think that would be an excellent idea.”

Fernald followed Rory down the hallway into the bedroom. The space was clean but cluttered, shirts and vests and scarves flung everywhere, jewelry and makeup strewn over the top of the dresser. 

Rory threw back the blankets from the bed and sat down, patting the mattress next to them in invitation.

“I’ll take these off,” said Fernald, waving his hook, “as long as you don’t mind.”

‘Of course not,” said Rory.

Fernald removed his prosthetics and placed them on the dresser, inadvertently knocking a few makeup brushes and a tube of lipstick to the floor.

“Sorry,” he said hurriedly, kneeling, trying to pick up the fallen items, fumbling hopelessly with them.

“Hey, forget it. Leave that,” said Rory. “Come sit with me?”

Fernald obeyed and joined Rory on the bed. The bedsheets were clean, the cotton cloth a soft pastel mauve. He surreptitiously felt the cloth—soft, almost silky. Fernald was definitely glad they’d decided to hang out at Rory’s place instead of his. 

Rory kissed him again, and Fernald wrapped his arms around them, trying impossibly to pull them closer, clinging tightly to them as if he never wanted to let them go—and in that moment, he didn’t. 

Fernald realized he was making a soft, needy sound as Rory broke away from the kiss. Their fingers traced down his throat, along the collar of his shirt, making his skin tingle as if with electricity. Then Rory lowered their head, kissing along the same path, following the touch of their hand. 

Rory tipped Fernald back onto the bed, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss him again, but pausing before they did. 

“Is this okay?”

“God yes, just kiss me.”

Rory obliged. They were kissing him, and touching him everywhere, the way he wished he could touch them, their hands wandering over his chest, his arms…

He could feel their erection pressing against him but in this position, he couldn’t move his hips to get any friction against his own, and sighed in frustration. Then they were kissing him on the earlobe, down the side of his neck, and then, gently, biting down. 

Fernald couldn’t suppress a moan. 

“Too hard?” asked Rory softly. 

“No,” said Fernald. “Do it again. Do it _harder_.”

“I can’t do it too hard, or I’ll leave marks.”

“Leave them,” begged Fernald. “I don’t mind. I want you to.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rory.

“Yes.”

“Okay. But only where it won’t show, otherwise we might have some explaining to do at work. Can I take your shirt off?”

Fernald nodded, and Rory slowly pushed up Fernald’s shirt and lifted it off over his head. They ran a hand admiringly down Fernald’s chest before leaning down again to kiss his throat again, lightly biting him—too light, not nearly as hard as he wanted. Then they were kissing him on the shoulder, along the collarbone, God, _licking_ him there—

“Come on. Hurt me.”

Rory bit him hard, just below the collarbone, sucking his flesh between their teeth in a way that should hurt but was only pleasure. When they released him, Fernald raised his head to observe the dark red splotch spreading over his skin.

“Perfect,” he said, grinning now from the rush of endorphins.

“Really?” asked Rory.

“Oh, yes. Something to remind me of what you’ve done to me.”

“I haven’t done much yet.”

Fernald pulled Rory down for another kiss, and this time, he was able to shift his position a little, even with them on top of him, and he thrust upwards, earning him a surprised gasp from Rory.

“Someone’s eager,” they murmured, and then with a hint of questioning, as if feeling out the situation, “Someone’s being…naughty?”

The words sent a tingle up Fernald’s spine, and he groaned, giving Rory the confirmation they’d been seeking. 

“Does someone need…punished?” whispered Rory.

“I do,” he agreed. “I need someone to teach me a lesson.”

Rory’s hand hovered over the waistband of Fernald’s pants, their expression asking permission. Fernald nodded, and they undid his fly and slid down his pants, leaving his boxers. Their hand ghosted over the front, the fabric tented over his hard cock—a maddeningly light touch, giving him barely any sensation. 

“How should I punish you? What will make you learn your lesson?” asked Rory, teasing, just a hint of danger creeping into their voice. 

Fernald let out a shaky breath. “Spank me,” he said hoarsely. 

“Turn over,” they ordered. “On your knees.”

Fernald complied. Rory placed one hand on top of his head, pressing his face down into the pillows, leaving him on his knees with his ass in the air. 

Their hand came down against him. Not nearly hard enough.

“Harder.”

The next time, they struck him harder, but it was obvious they were still holding back. 

“No, harder,” he urged. 

Rory’s grip tightened on the back of his neck. “You’ll take what I give you and like it,” they said, harsher now. “I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

And then they pulled down his shorts and slapped him hard on the ass, finally hard enough, their hand coming down over and over, and Fernald was crying out, loving the sensation, his cock impossibly hard and leaking precome. 

And then, leaving Fernald feeling as if it were over all too soon, Rory had stopped, was stroking his back and his ass cheeks with a gentle touch. 

“Why’d you stop?”

“You’ve had enough,” said Rory.

“No.”

“Yes,” said Rory, firmly. “It’ll hurt later.”

On some level of his mind that was not fully functional at the moment, Fernald knew his was true, but that didn’t stop him from pouting and whimpering right now.

“Shh,” said Rory. “Come on. Sit up and I’ll give you something better.”

Fernald obeyed. Rory ran a hand gently over his knee, up his thigh, and then they had lowered themselves to the floor in front of him and taken his erect penis into their mouth. 

“Oh my God.” All he could concentrate on now was their mouth, their throat warm around him, how they were startlingly good at this, and the lingering, delicious pain in his ass, the sting in his shoulder. It was all too good, too overwhelming, and if it didn’t stop—

“I’m—I’m going to—”

Rory kept going, and Fernald came, crying out as he spilled into their mouth. He lay back, trying to catch his breath, after a moment vaguely aware that Rory had gotten up and disappeared through the doorway into the adjoining room. After a moment, they returned, carrying a bottle of massage oil. 

“Turn over,” they said, and Fernald complied automatically.

Rory poured some of the oil into their hand and slowly rubbed their palms together to warm it before beginning to stroke soothingly over his shoulders, his back, his ass, the previous stinging pain faded to a dull throb (okay, maybe Rory had been right about that).

Fernald sighed in enjoyment. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. 

“I want to,” said Rory. “I like it. And besides, you let me spank you.”

“You mean—you like that too?” asked Fernald in surprise. 

“I like it a lot,” said Rory. 

“But I didn’t even do anything for you.”

“Just because it wasn’t physical doesn’t mean it wasn’t doing anything for me.”

“Oh,” said Fernald. That was a new idea. 

Rory was massaging his shoulders now, kissing the back of his neck, straddling his thighs. Fernald realized they were still fully dressed while he was naked, and that gave him another little thrill—actually, to his surprise, he was starting to get a little bit hard again. Rory was working their way down his back again, their touch gliding smooth and gentle over his ass, the backs of his legs, between his legs—

“May I?”

“Do it.” 

Two fingers, slick with oil, rubbing in delicate circles over his entrance, then one fingertip pressing into him. He felt like he was floating, Rory’s other hand kneading gently at his back the only thing keeping him grounded. 

And then their fingers were inside him, one, then two, and he could feel himself twitching around them. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned softly as they brushed against his prostate, and he was fully hard again. And Rory was leaning down to—unbelievable, they were sucking him again while their fingers filled him, pressing against that spot over and over.

The two sensations combined left him panting, pleading wordlessly, and he withstood it for as long as he could, until—

“Stop,” said Fernald. 

Rory stopped immediately, sitting back up and carefully withdrawing their fingers. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to come yet,” he said. “Not like this.”

“You don’t—?” 

“I want you to fuck me.” Then, with a hint of uncertainty, he added, “I mean, if you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” said Rory. 

Fernald propped himself up on one elbow to watch as they undressed, shedding their shirt and pants, and pausing as they noticed Fernald appreciatively eyeing their erection, straining against the front of their pink satin panties, a damp spot evident on the fabric. 

Fernald practically launched himself at Rory, sinking to his knees in front of them and kissing their hard cock through their panties, taking the head into his mouth, and he almost couldn’t stand it when he heard Rory gasp. 

He moved up to catch the waistband of their panties in his teeth, pulled them down, and took Rory into his mouth again, deeper, reveling in the feeling of their hot, silky skin against his tongue. 

Rory rested one hand on Fernald’s shoulder, the other affectionately stroking his face, thumb running over his cheekbone, and somehow that turned him on even more, making him moan around their cock in his mouth. 

“Not that I’m—complaining,” said Rory, breathing hard, “but I thought—oh my God—thought you wanted—“

Oh. Right. Yes. Fernald stopped and released them, looking up with a mischievous grin. “You distracted me,” he said. 

He moved to the bed, positioning himself on his hands and knees. “Come on. I’m ready.”

“Turn over,” said Rory, joining him on the bed. “I want to be able to look at you.”

Fernald obeyed as Rory poured out more massage oil, lubing their cock with one hand while they reached down with the other to slide two fingers into Fernald again, then a third, opening him up further. Eagerly, he thrust against their hand, trying to drive their fingers in deeper. 

“Fuck me,” he demanded. 

“So impatient,” murmured Rory. 

“I told you, I’m ready,’ he said. “ _Please_.”

Rory obliged, removing their fingers from him, moving closer, above him now, and guiding their cock into him slowly. 

“God, yes,” moaned Fernald.

There was, perhaps, a hint of pain somewhere beneath the pleasure as he felt himself stretching to accommodate their size (he really should listen to Rory about these things, he thought fleetingly) but pleasure won out, overwhelmingly.

“This might not take very long,” said Rory apologetically. 

“I don’t need very long,” said Fernald, bringing his knee up to nudge Rory in the back, in hopes of getting them to start moving _finally_. The change in his position brought pressure against his prostate, and he began to move his hips—if Rory wouldn’t move, he _would_. “There—fuck, right there,” he cried out. Rory watched him in fascination, keeping perfectly still as Fernald fucked himself on their cock.

And then Rory did move, thrusting into Fernald and taking his cock in the oil-slicked palm of their hand, stroking him. Then they kissed him, relentlessly, taking his breath away, and it wasn’t long at all before Fernald came. Rory followed soon after, quietly, closing their eyes and going still with a shuddering breath. 

Somehow, the two of them moved apart before collapsing onto the bed.

“Okay?” asked Rory after a moment. 

“So much better than okay.”

Rory gave another barely perceptible smile as they threw an arm over Fernald’s chest and rested their head against his shoulder. 

“You know, we’re going to have to talk about some things before the next time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Fernald.

“I didn’t know you were into heavier play,” said Rory, their tone lightly scolding. “We should figure out a safeword, things like that.”

Fernald looked at them in concern. “I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t like?” he asked, suddenly worried. 

“No,” said Rory. “Not at all. I just want to be totally sure I never hurt you for real.”

Fernald hugged Rory closer, nuzzling against them and pressing a kiss to their cheek.


End file.
